The Wine Bottle
by Wyndmir
Summary: An update, you don't say! Truths are revealed. Characters are developed. Brian was such a punk...but a gorgeous one. Reviews are better than chocolate...well...
1. Chapter 1

First chapter in a new fic. Hope you enjoy!

**6:00 pm**

**Curt's apartment.**

Arthur pushed open the door and brushed the snow off his coat. As he unwound his scarf, he noticed Curt sitting lightly on the edge of the couch. He was tapping his heel on the hardwood floor excitedly, and Arthur could see in an instant that his better half was upset. Not upset, bloody pissed as hell. Arthur tentatively placed his scarf on the nearby hook and moved inside.

"Hey." Arthur offered cautiously.

"Hey." Curt said blankly. Yeah, he was steamed about something big time.

"Everything alright?"

Curt broke his stare and stopped tapping. His eyes darkened and he clenched his jaw. He looked like he was ready to pull a knife on someone, anyone, even Arthur. Arthur could hear himself swallow.

"Brian called me today."

Arthur felt his heart plummet into his stomach and his throat closed. Masking his own reaction as best he could, Arthur eased over to the chair and sat down.

"And?"

"And I don't know! He fucking called me! What do you want me to fucking say!"

Curt sprang off the couch and began pacing, instantly sorry for snapping at Arthur. Arthur steeled himself with a well-practiced resolve. Curt was upset, fine. He was venting, fine. But if he talks to me like that again, I will pick him up bodily and toss him in the shower fully clothed. Arthur let Curt pace.

"FUCK!" Curt screamed. In one movement he raked the magazines off the coffee table and swept up phone, receiver, base and all. He hurled them at the wall, and seeing that the damage was minimal, set to ripping the chords out of their sockets. Arthur's resolve warmed into sympathy. Better let him have it out. Curt seized a half-empty wine bottle off the bar and launched it at the door. Black glass shattered and a very fine merlot dripped like blood over the paint. It looked like someone just had their head bashed in.

"MOTHERFUCKER!"

Curt cursed and spat violently. Arthur wondered how long he would thrash around the apartment like this before crumpling into sobs. Maybe no tears were forthcoming, maybe he just wanted to destroy something.

Arthur couldn't imagine what might have taken place over the phone. A casual hello? A plea for reconciliation? A bitter accusation? Arthur's head swam. Did he call as Tommy or as Brian? Was Curt angry at the intrusion of Brian back into his life or stirred up by the prospect of a reunion? It seemed to Arthur that Curt's outbursts sounded very much like the kind lovers have. Had Curt been reminded of something?

"I'm going out."

Curt grabbed his keys and stormed out, leaving Arthur staring at the broken bottle. Curt had brought it home last night to honor their one year anniversary as a couple. Arthur seriously doubted the dates Curt might have been thinking of, but he poured them both glasses just the same. They never finished the bottle.

Arthur bent down and began to carefully pick up the pieces.


	2. Chapter 2

**Thanks to everyone for the lovely reviews! I'm sorry this next chapter covers some very familiar territory...bear with me! I promise some interesting developments are forthcoming! The return of Brian, some unexpected violence, lots of juicy evil stuff. Evil I tell you! rubs hands together devilishly Please stay tuned!**

**Chapter 2**

Curt's boots clicked on the pavement as he walked swiftly down the street. His breath trailed behind him like weak puffs of cloud in the twilight. The chill in the air felt good, clean, clear. He was too upset to register the cold, and he jammed his hands into his pockets more out of frustration than discomfort. After walking for about an hour, he darted into the nearest bar and ordered a scotch. The air inside was heavy but not unpleasant. It was still very early in the evening, and only a few regulars dotted various booths and tables in the parameter. Curt downed his first drink, promptly demanded the entire bottle, and retreated to a secluded booth in a dark corner. As soon as he sat down, every memory he tried to escape settled into the seat next to him, as surely as if they had pulled up a chair.

Brian was back.

Curt studied his drink like a scientist and yet saw nothing. His eyes, glazed and red, were frozen in focus to years past. The bar grew blurry and vague, its sounds muffled and far away.

* * *

"I'm leaving." Curt announced. His hands shook as he lit a cigarette. Brian turned away and lowered his head. If Curt hadn't been so upset, he would've commented on how beautiful Brian looked that day—healthy, porcelain, and awash in the technicolor glow of success. Even more beautiful was the overcast grayness that surrounded him, a haze of sadness and anger that made his stillness seem magical in its unlikeliness. It was like seeing a fire through a fog. But Curt only saw his back turned. The only noise was of the car pulling in below.

"Good. I'm glad you're leaving." Brian lied. And yet, when he turned to look at Curt, he winced internally at his lover's appearance. Compared to his own statuesque suffering, the art he made of pain, Brian noticed that Curt wore his emotions in the lines around his eyes, in the pallor of his skin. He looked more like a junkie than when they had first met. Threads of yellow hair hung in Curt's face and his lips were pale. Maybe he was glad to see him go.

Brian's words were like a blow to the stomach, but Curt recovered quickly, out of anger and a stubborn egotism, and stalked downstairs. He looked once more at Brian's window. His stare melted the frost on the pane and yet begged questions that would never be answered. Brian met Curt's gaze note for note and returned it with a silence and resolve that finally broke him. Curt shook his head in rage and defeat and retreated.

* * *

The bottle of scotch was near half empty. Curt slumped down in the booth, leaned his head back, and closed his eyes. Arthur had probably gone home by now.

Curt was losing control of his memories. A combination of liquor and stale air lulled him into a stupor, and he lost the energy to sort out the thoughts swirling in his head. This bar, he mused, reminds me of that bar from when...

* * *

"You're Curt Wild."

A young man tensed slightly when he heard his own voice. He realized that he had made the statement to himself and yet spoken it aloud, almost as if it were a question. He became suddenly aware of himself, his height, his ungainliness, the cold glass of the beer bottle he clutched, and the man sitting a few steps away turned up his head to glare at him.

"Yeah." He rasped, low and irritated. "Who the hell are you?"

Curt was not in the mood, not interested, not having any of it or anyone. He wanted to nurse the piss-grade afterthought of a beer and be left alone. He felt cemented to the chair, fused into the cheap vinyl and made a part of the dinginess of the space, a calcified hunk of memorabilia that would have to be broken away from its resting place. Oddly content to sit there and soak up the stink of the place, he wondered now who the fuck would care enough or be bold enough to disturb him. And here was this man, this tall, handsome young man who barely spoke above a whisper.

"Just a journalist...from the 'erald." He voice rose slightly. Curt breathed smoke and stared ahead.

"It's just funny...I tried to contact you earlier about a story I was doing about an old friend of yours... Brian Slade."

Curt shot a threatening look but the other man ventured closer, twisting the now warm bottle in his hands and speaking more directly. Arthur never knew his own bravery, he never would have recognized his own subtle way of baiting a subject, throwing out a line of inquiry and jerking back just as someone cracked under his quiet invitation to reveal something. He calmly tossed his lure out to Curt,

"Trying to find out what actually happened to him..."

"Look," Curt interrupted, squirming on the hook.

"Before he became...

The reporter paused.

"Such a mystery."

Gotcha. Curt's head shot up and his eyes seized his interviewer. Fuck you, Curt wanted to say, fuck you and your questions and your advantage over me. And fuck Brian for putting him in situations like this, his battle scars still poured over by bored 'journalists from the Herald.'

And yet he paused before the rant began. The young man paused as well, more out of a strategic courtesy than out of intimidation. Curt was momentarily impressed. An understanding flared between them instead, like the white spurt of a match in the darkness. Nevertheless, he silently waited for the reporter to give him an excuse to bolt.

"Look man," Curt scoffed, sounding less impatient and more defensive, "I don't know who you've been talking to or what you're after but..."

He crushed his cigarette and as he did his bluster fell apart. Who was this guy? Who ever heard of a soft-spoken reporter anyway? Restlessness crept underneath Curt's clothes and he shifted uncomfortably and looked away. He found himself waiting for Arthur to speak, waiting for that skilled voice to lure him back out again.

"What?" Arthur sat down. Every movement he made was careful but not calculating. He eased in like a priest preparing for confession. The unexpected tenderness flustered Curt. He was in this deeper than he initially thought. This guy would need—he deserved—a better response than "Fuck off." Curt twisted around to face him for the first time, and Arthur was struck by how unthreatening the allegedly hard-boiled musician actually appeared. He was slight, his shoulders small and his skin pale.

"Listen, a real artist creates beautiful things and puts nothing of his own life into them okay?" Curt offered. Where in the hell was this justification coming from? Why was he talking to this guy?

"Is that what you did?"

Was that a tinge of resentment in the reporter's voice?

"No." Curt consented, completely dismantled. "We set out to change the world. Ended up just changing ourselves." Brian's image flashed in Curt's mind, but he couldn't tell if it was a an actual memory or a poster he had seen.

"What's wrong with that?"

"Nothing." Curt looked into the crowd near the bar. "If you don't look at the world."

Curt had rarely been pinned down in a conversation so quickly, and he relented gladly. He had been storing these thoughts up for ages and it was a relief to finally let them out, albeit to a total stranger.

Meanwhile, Tommy Stone glowered smugly from his pedestal over the jukebox.

* * *

The face of Tommy Stone roused Curt from his dozing. He resumed his former position of shoulders hunched over a glass. Bastard, he thought. Lying bastard. Suddenly he remembered the end of his conversation at the other bar years ago, how he remembered the man questioning him and how that remembrance warmed and amused him. He hated to leave Arthur then, and stalled trying to come up with some reason to continue the conversation. So he gave back the pin...maybe they could take a walk or have another drink anyway? No such luck. Curt recalled his hesitation and how the weariness of that day finally found him and escorted him quietly from Arthur's soft inquiries.

Curt smiled to himself. How that night only got worse, he thought. Much worse. Worse in bruises and blood. He traced a ragged scar over his wrist. After several moments of meditating on his old injury, Curt hauled himself to his feet and started the journey home.

Maybe Arthur would still be there.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Like most of us, I like to gloss over the fact that the Tommy Stone incarnation of Brian is clearly the result of at least some plastic surgery. I just don't think make-up alone could change his appearance _that _much. But we all, of course, would rather see Brian than Tommy, so let's just keep pretending that when he removes the white pompadour wig and foundation he's back as our beautiful Brian Slade. Anyway, on with the next chapter.**

* * *

"I'm warning you Shannon, get out now before I call Sid and have you thrown out!" Brian shouted. He threw his overcoat down and stalked into his living room with Shannon hot on his heels. 

"Oh no, you're not shutting me out now Brian. We need to talk about this." She stopped in the center of the room. "Anyway, Sid follows my orders" she spat.

"Piss off." Brian hissed. He stepped behind the bar and began fixing a drink. He was tired and frustrated, and the last thing he wanted was a row with his manager.

"Fuck! Where's the bloody..." Brian threw open the small enameled doors of his bar and began rummaging.

Shannon took a deep breath and collected herself. She moved to a stack of boxes and opened a few, finally retrieving a new bottle of vodka. The apartment was furnished but barely showed signs of habitation; it looked more like a luxurious hotel suite than a home, and that's essentially what it was as Brian had only recently resumed residency there. She seized his glass and poured a single shot. He glared at her. She poured again and he snatched it out of her hands.

"Brian, I only want to help. I need to know what's been going on...I need to know why you have been so off lately. The interviews, the photoshoots, dammit, even onstage you couldn't keep it together. What's wrong?" Her inquiries sounded more like accusations than offers of help.

Brian turned his back to her and lowered his head. He sighed deeply. Shannon's eyes bored into the back of his skull.

"It's him, isn't it." She said coolly. "You thinking about Curt Wild."

Brian smiled maliciously to himself when she said Curt's last name. Poor Shannon, he thought, she's privy to everything and part of nothing.

When Brian did not respond right away Shannon knew her prediction was true. "I fucking knew it," she cursed under her breath, "I knew this would happen one day."

"And what if I am?" Brian spun around dramatically. The vodka felt warm in his chest and he could feel himself loosening up.

"This is not the time for that, Brian," Shannon replied as diplomatically as her anger would allow. "We've got bigger things to think about."

Brian momentarily wondered if anything could be more important than seeing Curt again. He remained silent.

"I need you to focus so we can talk about the tour."

"Fuck touring!" Brian snarled and slammed his glass on the bar. "And fuck Tommy Stone. I'm sick to death of this whole bloody show!"

His definance reignited Shannon's rage. Her eyes flashed with indignation. She stood rooted to the floor and clenched her jaw.

"Do you know what I did yesterday?" Brian sauntered around her and flounced down on the enormous couch. He was feeling vindictive now.

"I called him. And if I can, I'm going to see him." He waited eagerly for her to explode. To his surprise (and disappointment), she turned calmly and adjusted her coat.

"We'll talk about this later. Try to get some sleep." Best to kill him with kindness, she thought. No sense in agitating Brian Slade when his blood was up. She would revisit this problem with he was more vulnerable, when the trappings of his fame and fortune became her allies and made him pliant and needy. She knew he couldn't resist the spotlight, and as long she was the one who made it possible for him to stay in it, she would be indispensable. Best to pick your battles,and the "Curt" issue,shethought bitterly,was sure to be one of them now.

Shannon told him goodnight and left quietly. She found Sid, Brian's top security man, on the other side of the door.

"Everything okay?" Sid asked. He was a stocky, thick sort of man who tried to disguise his bricklayer's physique in fancy clothes, all of which had to be altered to accommodate his stature.

"For the moment." Shannon sighed. "Our number one priority is to keep this tour on schedule. Whatever it costs."

"Naturally." Sid grinned stupidly.

"Too much time, money, and favors have been invested in this project for it to be thrown away now, Curt Wild be damned." She seemed to be talking to herself as she stalked down the hall. Not much of a music fan himself, Sid had only heard the name once or twice before, but the flush in Shannon's face piqued his attention.

"Yes ma'am."

* * *

Brian laid back on the couch and ran his hands through his hair, blessedly free of his Tommy Stone getup. His phone call to Curt had been nothing short of a disaster...he had stumbled over his hello's and how are you's and had become ruffled by Curt's coldness, finally snapping at him and hanging up. And yet the memory of it made him smile in spite of himself. 

How strong Curt sounded. Clear and sober. He was cold, yes, but his voice still carried that warm gruffness, the low rasp that made Brian's heart race.

He reached into his pocket and retrieved a piece of paper containing an address. The fight with Shannon had all but disappeared from his mind as he smoothed out the corners of the paper. In fact, his mind carried no trace of Shannon, Tommy Stone, tours, crowds, or even music. There was only himself lying on the couch and Curt somewhere in the same city. He placed the hand holding the address over his heart like a schoolgirl with a crush. How long it had been. This week, he thought, this week I'll see him. Too tired to admit to the anxiety of such a prospect, Brian closed his eyes and fell sound asleep.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: Thanks again for the reviews; they really keep this going. I am trying some new stuff with this chapter, a little romance, a lot of action, and so on and so forth. I hope it comes across well. **

**Warnings: Violence, language, and some references to drug use. None of it is that bad, though. **

**Disclaimer: I do not own Curt, Brian, Arthur, Jerry, or Tommy Stone. Those characters belong to Todd Haynes and Miramax, and this story is not written for profit.**

**Ready...and ACTION!**

* * *

Curt opened the door to find all the lights still on, but the apartment was cold and quiet. He tossed his jacket aside without even noticing the absence of a shattered wine bottle. He remembered the incident when he saw a broom standing in the corner. _I have a broom? _he thought sleepily. The stillness of the apartment offered no evidence of the turmoil from earlier in the evening, but that was the effect Arthur usually had on a place. The great peacemaker, Curt sometimes called him. 

Curt then spied Arthur fast asleep on the long plush couch, drawn up against the chill of the room and still in his jacket and shoes. Curt smiled. He eased over and knelt down, smoothed back Arthur's dark hair and kissed him softly on the forehead.

Curt suddenly felt a little silly...he wasn't an unaffectionate person, but such displays usually struck him as a bit maternal and contradictory to his usually rough nature. What had he become, a mother cat with her favorite kitten? Still, the liberating effects of alcohol combined with the way Arthur's face took on such a boyish innocence while he slept inspired a gentleness that Curt thought he had long since buried. It resurfaced more and more these days.

Brian had a similar effect once.

But theirs were just stolen moments in shadowy hotel corridors or the backseats of limos, tiny respites in a daily assault of flash photography and stares by a greedy public. Invasions into their warm little world provoked Curt's rage time and time again, and the situation worsened when he noticed that Brian did not always share his contempt for the publicity machine Jerry had so skillfully devised. As Curt grew more desperate for the connection he forged with Brian, the more he tried to steal his lover out of the spotlight. Brian responded with confusion, resistance, and spite. _"Don't you think people need to see us?" _Brian once asked Curt. _"We're are stars, Curt! Without us, think of how dreary and dull the world would be!" _

Starlight can cross the universe and fall on every planet in its path. Brian wanted to touch and feel everything. Curt just wanted a light for his own. The black hole that opened between them turned Brian cold. It left his lover, the reckless boy from a Michigan wasteland, bitter and angry.

And here in the soothing quiet of his apartment, usually at the edge of the couch, the foot of the bed, or across the bar, Curt had rediscovered what an addiction intimacy could be, and it had never tasted sweeter. He felt the softness of glossy dark hair under his skin.

Arthur stirred under his touch and opened his eyes. He jerked up as if he had been caught napping on the job. Blinking groggily, he tried to rouse himself to full attention.

"Hey...sorry...what time is it?" Arthur whispered.

"Quarter of three." Curt grinned in amusement as Arthur attempted unsuccessfully to stifle a yawn.

"Man, it's freezing in here. Why didn't you just go to bed?" Curt placed his hands on Arthur's knees and ran them slowly up to the tail of his shirt. Arthur shivered and took Curt's cold hands in his own.

"I dunno...I thought I might leave... I thought maybe you wanted to be alone to think or something." Arthur looked around absently to avoid Curt's gaze. Brian's phone call again became a near tangible presence in the room.

"Do you want to talk about it?" Arthur was definitely awake now.

"Nah. Not tonight." Curt suddenly felt exhausted, too tired even to think about the call and all of its implications. It was as if mentioning it again had a tranquilizing effect instead. His mind devolved into one equation: Arthur plus bed plus sleep equals good.

Curt didn't want to talk, but he sure as hell didn't want to be alone.

"I can't believe you were going to split," he said, mock-accusingly, "that's fucked up. If I wanted you to leave I'd tell you."

Arthur winced a little and then shrugged sheepishly. "Well, that's good...I think. But if it ever comes to that point I hope I would have sense enough to leave on my own."

Curt pulled himself up to eye-level with Arthur and slipped his arms inside Arthur's dark blue jacket. Arthur tilted his head slightly as Curt brought his mouth as closely to his partner's as he could without making contact. The heat between them pulsed softly with each breath.

"Your problem is you never stay long enough," Curt murmured. He moved just enough for his mouth to shore up the sliver of light between them and seamlessly drove his tongue in for a deep kiss. Arthur responded hungrily until Curt finally had to break away for breath.

"C'mon, let's go to bed," he sighed. He grabbed Arthur by the wrists, hauled him up off the couch and the two retreated to the back of the apartment. He was grateful that Arthur didn't press the phone call conversation or pester him about where he'd been. Arthur had learned to expertly read Curt's signals and how to accommodate them, so when Curt said "bed" all discussions for the night were closed...to their mutual relief.

Within fifteen minutes, clothes lay scattered across the hardwood floor and both were warm and asleep.

* * *

Arthur roused awake in discomfort. More than discomfort, in fact—he was burning up and suffocating. As his senses slowly clicked back into place, he realized that Curt was all but laying on top of him.

To say that Curt was a temperamental sleeper would be an understatement. Some nights he thrashed and tossed uselessly over the covers, other times he slept like the dead. Many nights he simply didn't sleep at all.

Arthur didn't want to wake him, but he nevertheless shifted slightly out from under the sinewy figure that had claimed him as a body-sized pillow. As he did, Curt wallowed lightly and unconsciously turned his head to the opposite wall, flipping a hank of smoky blond hair right over Arthur's face.

Arthur piffed and blew Curt's hair out of his mouth. He stifled a small laugh. _He must be out cold. _

He stared down the curved landscape of Curt's back. The faint moonlight gave the impression that he was carved from marble. Something underneath Curt's firm abdomen stirred.

_Jeez, not now_, Arthur chided, but only the top half of himself listened. He decided instead that he was thirsty and in need of a stretch. Disentangling himself from the limbs of his bedfellow, however, proved to be a task.

For every small, quiet move Arthur made to the edge of the bed, Curt constricted, completely oblivious to the attempted escape of his captive. The more he tried to get away, the more Curt's body hardened in instinctual protest.

Arthur looked over at the sleeping Curt and smiled. _Get off me you wanker! _Arthur could now barely keep from laughing at his predicament. _It's a king-sized bed for fuck's sake_, _and the only space you want is over here_. As swiftly as he could without being too clumsy, Arthur heaved Curt on his back and to the side. _Phew, he's still asleep_. He carefully removed Curt's arm from his chest and folded it over its owner. _Finally, now to the kitchen. _But just as Arthur started to move, Curt stretched and his arm flopped over again, smacking Arthur sharply right on the bridge of his nose.

_Ow! That's it!_ Arthur silently cursed, far more amused than angry. _I don't bloody care if you do wake up! _He sat up roughly now and seized Curt's arm for the last time to throw it back to his side of the bed.

But as he did something made him pause.

Arthur felt the smooth underside of Curt's wrist give way to a strange coarseness. In the pale light he gazed at the jagged edges of a vicious scar and remembered the wound that left it.

* * *

Curt left the bar in a sad daze. He still felt the dull surprise of seeing his young conquest again, but his face brought with it memories of the Death of Glitter concert and his last days with Brian. The night of the Tommy Stone show had been shitty enough without having to dredge through those memories yet again. As he pulled out his cigarettes and started down the street, Curt consoled himself with hazy recollections of a moldy striped mattress and the laughing protests of an attractive stranger who had landed on the receiving end of his busy hands. 

His name was Arthur. Curt watched the cracks of the sidewalk pass under his boots. The further he walked, the thinner the crowds became until he was walking alone, save for an occasional body ducking into a building or getting in or out of a car.

Everything was falling into place: the concert, the rooftop, the phone call with Reynold's goons in his office, the daring question fired during the press conference, and finally Arthur standing before him in the bar. Curt wondered at the strange cyclical nature of it all. It seemed little poetic. Or destined perhaps. He smiled in spite of himself. _Arthur. We both made it through and look where we are now._

Curt couldn't help but feel a warm attachment to this long lost stranger. _Maybe the pin said enough_, _maybe it told him that I remembered_, he thought, _maybe now I can look on that night as finished._

"Hey Curt!" A voice dashed the quiet of Curt's musing. He stopped at the street corner and looked around.

"Curt, over here!" A nasally voice called from the wall to his right. Curt turned around to see two men passing back and forth a fifth of Jack Daniels. The one who called him, a young man in denim who stood with a slight hunch, grinned crookedly. His friend had removed a glass pipe from his pocket and was making preparations to light up but stopped when Curt turned around.

"Aw, c'mon, don't you remember me, Curt? It's Rick! Remember your buddy Rick?" Rick scratched through his greasy black hair.

Curt eyed the two warily. He did remember a Rick, though only vaguely. He was once a regular customer of a Rick, for everything from pot to heroine to pharmaceuticals. After having finally (and very painfully) dragged himself off methadone, Curt was largely drug-free, barring of course the casual joint now and then, thousands of cigarettes, and copious amounts of alcohol. At one time, of course, Curt lived slavishly under the control of chemicals. He burned through money, time, and energy to arrange for his next fix, and experienced a wide variety of degradations and indignities in the process, as both instigator and victim. Now, with his music respected and money in the bank, Curt couldn't imagine falling back into the sewer. And not tonight, not after seeing Brian...Tommy...whoever. He just wanted to go home and go to bed.

"Hey." Curt said flatly. He started off the curb and across the street, past the seedy pair.

Rick's friend, a large, balding man in khaki coveralls, followed Curt with empty eyes.

Rick socked him lightly on the arm. "Check it out, this is my old buddy Curt Wild. THE Curt Wild. The rock star. Fucking unbelievable, man!"

"I don't listen to his music." The large man stated indifferently. Curt shuddered imperceptibly in relief.

"Curt, seriously, you lookin' for some smack or what?" Rick asked excitedly. His voice was all jitters.

"No thanks." Curt replied and kept walking. He heard Rick leave his corner and trot up behind him.

"C'mon man, I've got a line on some premium stuff, remember...like you used to like. I can give it to you for real cheap. A discount, ya know, for all the past business. Remember how we used to hang out on Reed Street? The place is still up and running, ya know. We could all go there and have some fun." He skuttled in front of Curt.

"We never hung out. And I don't want anything. Now get out of my way." Curt was growing impatient. The quiet man appeared in the corner of his eye.

"Okay, it's cool, no problem." Rick squeaked. He stepped forward, forcing Curt to back up a couple of steps, back to the dingy building on the corner.

"But before ya split, Curt," Rick said, "Why don't you help an old friend out, ya know. Just lend me enough for cab fare. Cab fare for me and Sam here."

"Sorry, I'm fresh out." Curt replied shortly, his eyes starting to blaze with anger. He made to move forward again when a thick hand landed on his shoulder and shoved him against the wall. Rick stepped into Curt's personal space as Sam planted his hand on the wall behind Curt.

"C'mon, man, just lend me a little. I know you got it. Just give me whatever is in your wallet...it's gotta be at least a couple of hundred, right? Curt Wild the rock star." Rick continued to grin like a jackal.

The truth was that Curt really was out of money that night, but Rick's assumption was not far off the mark. Curt had come back into his own as a solo artist, and his finances were again showing proof of it. He had just bought a beautiful new apartment across town.

Curt sniffed the reek drifting off Rick's clothes and made a face. He met Sam's glare and spat.

"Fuck off." Curt started around Rick when Sam grabbed the collar of his jacket. He slung Curt backwards and into the wall again and belted him hard across the jaw. Curt's knees buckled somewhat but he corrected himself instantly. His head, however, was spinning. Sam seized the lapels of Curt's jacket and pinned him roughly against the wall, his stinking hot breath choking Curt.

"Just take whatever he's got. And, ya know, I like that jacket too." Rick ordered from over Sam's shoulder. He was pacing nervously and his hands were shaking. Curt could tell he was high on something, probably coke.

"I'm not giving you shit," Curt sneered. Sam pressed in harder against him and stared at him with round, hollow eyes.

"Don't be like that, Curt," Rick stuttered, "Sam's got a mean streak in him and if he get's started I don't know if I can call him off." He lit a cigarette. His drags were shallow and quick.

Sam's grip on Curt's jacket tightened and he leaned in close now, his fists pressing sharp bruises along Curt's collarbone. Curt pushed back with all the energy he had left, but Sam was simply too strong for him.

"I hate queers," Sam rasped lowly, his eyes now vacant and insane. A dread fell over Curt as he realized that while Rick was looking for a quick paycheck, this other man was looking for sport. He lusted for someone, preferably a gay someone, to beat senseless, and tonight was his lucky night.

_Well, all I need now is for a piano to fall from the sky and land on me, that would really top off tonight, _Curt thought sardonically. _Oh well, maybe I'm going to get beaten, but not by this smelly piece of shit bigot. _He flashed a reckless smile at Sam, the kind an inmate would flash at his executioner, and rammed his knee as far as it could go into Sam's groin.

The larger man gasped in pain and bent at the waist, but he maintained his grip on the jacket. Curt attempted to twist himself away but Sam recovered too quickly. He slammed Curt into the wall again, knocking the breath right out of him. Curt now didn't have enough room to try and swing. Sam's left arm was pinned across his chest, his right forearm was now crushing into Curt's throat.

He could hear Rick chirping from behind, "I told ya! I told ya! Smash his face in, Sam!"

Sam landed a swift punch in Curt's side. His boots scuffed against the pavement. Sam hit him again. And again. Each time harder than the first. Curt was smothering under the bulk and stench of his attacker. Only vaguely did he realize that Rick's cheers had stopped. Before he could see why, Sam coughed, jerked violently off of Curt and stumbled backward, his blank eyes now widened in surprise. Curt blinked and tried to focus. Arthur had ripped Sam away by his collar and had spun him around to face the street. Before Sam could collect himself, Arthur threw several tight, fast, and powerful blows into his face and stomach. Sam swung widely and Arthur dodged easily, matching Sam's next swing with a sudden block and catching him instead with an uppercut to the jaw. Blood poured from Sam's mouth.

Curt suddenly heard glass shatter against the light pole, and he saw Rick, broken liquor bottle in hand, lunge toward Arthur. Curt jumped in his way and the two struggled back over the curb and to the wall. Rick thrust forward with the bottle, which caught the cuff of Curt's jacket and was forced into his upper sleeve. Curt gritted his teeth in pain but used his free arm to backhand Rick viciously. The drug dealer fell back and stumbled over himself, dropping the bottle in the process. Curt strode forward, his eyes now steely and shining, and grabbed Rick's shirt, heaved him off the ground and belted him. Rick wrenched himself out of Curt's grasp and staggered backwards. He spat an ugly curse and then broke into a run.

Curt spun around. Sam stood faltering on his feet, a tight wad of his shirt's collar twisted in Arthur's fist. He cocked his arm back to deliver a final blow.

"You've got three seconds." Arthur said cooly. His body was tense and hard, his arm raised like a switchblade ready to spring. He released his grip just enough for his opponent to worm away. Sam blinked stupidly and stumbled away, the madness in his eyes replaced by a dumb disbelief. A chain link fence nearby rattled as Sam scrambled over it and into the darkness.

And the air was quiet again.

Curt watched as Arthur relaxed, his muscles releasing the tension that dominated the fight. He breathed deeply.

"Where the hell did you come from?" Curt asked.

"I just left the bar and started walking. Then I saw you and these guys and thought..." Arthur shrugged.

Curt broke into a smile. His soft-spoken reporter had just beaten the shit out of a lunatic and instantly reverted back to his shy, unassuming demeanor.

"My God, you're bleeding," Arthur stepped forward and pushed up the sleeve of Curt's jacket. Rivulets of blood were leaking from a horrid gash on the underside of his wrist, draining into the palm of his hand and dripping from his fingertips. The sight of it produced a tiny stabbing pain in Arthur's chest.

"Oh yeah, fucker took a bottle after me." Curt said flatly, trying to sound unconcerned. He felt a small twinge at Arthur's touch.

"You really need to have that sewn up. Can I take you to the hospital? I mean, uh..." Arthur felt himself blush. He didn't mean for it to sound so much like a date invitation.

"No way, man. Fuck no. I don't do hospitals." Curt suddenly became tense and standoffish.

Arthur paused and then remembered Curt's history. He felt a little guilty for having that kind of advantage over Curt, of knowing so much about him, so many of the ugly truths and trials.

Arthur smiled sympathetically but didn't reveal that he knew what Curt was referring to.

"Okay, well, then let's at least go to my place. My neighbor is a med-student and he's all the time practicing this kind of stuff at home," Arthur offered. Curt sighed in relief that the hospital option was dropped so easily.

"But first, here..." Arthur removed a handkerchief from his back pocket and wrapped it around the wound. Curt smiled. Who still carries handkerchiefs with them?

"What the fuck was that, anyway?" Curt asked.

"What was what?" Arthur looked up innocently.

"That... you. You completely waled on that guy. I've never seen anything like it. Do you box or something?"

"I just, uh..." Arthur focused intently on Curt's wrist. "I sometimes get a little physical when I'm angry, I guess."

"I guess." Curt laughed.

* * *

The only sound in the room was Curt's deep, measured breathing. Arthur ran his thumb over the scar, feeling the raised tissue under his touch, the difference between the smooth and the textured. He bent down kissed Curt's wrist gently, letting his tongue move warmly over the scar as if covering it with his mouth now might heal it completely, even as Curt slept.

He delicately placed Curt's arm back on the sheet and slipped quietly out of bed.

* * *

**A/N: What's to come? Brian's return, a confrontation, shifty business practices, a new character, more violence, and good mushy romance. Please let me know if you like it!**


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer: As usual, I don't own any of the characters mentioned herein. This story is not written for profit, blah blah blah.**

**A/N: Thank you everyone for your lovely reviews. I'm sorry this update took so long. School, holidays, life, you know the drill. Plus I've spent A LOT of time reading other people's stuff rather than working on my own. There is some great stuff out there! **

**Anyway, this chapter kinda got away from me. I've got the next three or so chapters worked out, and I had planned to move the story along significantly here, but evidently Curt and Arthur insisted on a little alone-time. Eh, what are you gonna do? I PROMISE some good Brian action soon...he's coming back in a big way, along with some familiar and not-so-familiar faces. **

**The next update will be much quicker than this one. Thanks again for reading! All reviews are deeply appreciated. Now, on your mark...set...and GO!**

Curt woke up to the smell of coffee. Not just any coffee, but the darkest, woodiest, strongest coffee one pot could withstand. Coffee like a black hole captured in a glass carafe, its density impenetrable even to the cold golden glare of the early morning sun. Arthur always loaded the filter to the brim and made about twice as much as would be consumed, but it was the smell Curt loved over and above the drink.

Tiny pockets of strong coffee scent hung quietly in the corners of Curt's memory, in the cluttered kitchen of his one childhood refuge, his great aunt Nora, a clear-eyed, wildly funny family misfit whose irreverent logic and good-natured ribbing alienated her from the majority of the clan and endeared her to Curt. In the eyes of a nine year old, she had the most curious habit of saying either exactly what she thought or what everyone knew but was too afraid to admit.

"This boy won't stay here to rot in a tire factory," she once snapped at Curt's father, "even if I have to take him to New York or Chicago myself."

Of course, the fabled trip to a glittering city, Nora's promise of freedom, wouldn't arrive until many years later and under very different circumstances. Nine years after the declaration, six after leaving home and eight after Nora's Chevelle spun into that truck, Curt found himself in need of some comfort. He sucked in the earthy smell of strong coffee wafting from a high window in the alley of a seedy Brooklyn hotel. Though Curt was sore, hungry, and alone, the coffee smell felt like warm arms on a cold evening. On mornings when he dimly pondered packing it in, loading up another hit or stepping off the subway platform, the memory of Aunt Nora's kitchen gently nudged him back to life in the daylight.

Waking up to that now familiar aroma lifted Curt's mood as soon as his bleary eyes opened. The warm waves of scent floated in heavy tendrils to the rear of the apartment and told him that Arthur was there, that someone was home with him.

Curt stretched and yawned like a lion spread over a mound of blankets. He might have drifted back off to sleep if some idle shuffling in the kitchen hadn't broken the stillness. As his senses sluggishly came into focus, the bright, hard corners and straight lines created by the shadows of the morning sun burned pleasantly in his vision. Compared to his escapades a decade ago, last night's bit of drinking was a trifle, and he smiled at himself while thinking of how good it felt to wake up clear-headed and well-rested. He stared blankly ahead as dust particles caught the sun and sunk silently to the floor. He never noticed before how beautiful and still morning could be.

Without warning, an image of Brian snapped into Curt's mind. In one second, the calm was broken. The sun burned in his eyes and his blankets smothered him. Curt frowned and squinted, his brow knitted as if he had just been struck by ten migraines at once. He buried his face in his pillow and yanked the comforter back over himself. Fucking mornings.

"Hey," Arthur appeared in doorway.

The mound of bedcovers groaned grumpily.

"You wanted me to get you up for that thing, right? Your meeting at the studio."

"That was a stupid fucking idea," the covers grunted. "Who schedules meetings on Saturdays?"

"You do, Mr. I Want to Buy a New Studio." Arthur grinned. It was always a good time watching Curt try to wake up.

The heap on the bed moaned in protest. The covers flew back and Curt lay fully exposed to the brightness of day, his straw-colored hair now gleaming in the sun.

"I changed my mind." he drawled as he threw his arms over his face. "The studio we have downstairs is plenty."

Arthur's heart lurched at the word "we."

He stiffened against the doorframe in an effort to suppress the adrenaline rush that coursed through him. Seeing Curt sprawled naked over the bed in a pool of sunlight activated every nerve in his body in one electric moment.

Arthur took a deep breath and sauntered to the bed, planted his knee on the edge and swung over and on top of Curt, covering him completely.

"Oomph!" Curt's breath caught as long legs tightened around him. He squirmed a bit and snaked his arms around Arthur's waist.

"Now that's more like it," Curt purred, "I'm definitely not getting up now."

Arthur nuzzled Curt's neck and felt himself grow suddenly drowsy. "I could fall asleep right here and now, just like how you slept on me all night last night."

"Mmm...you're comfortable though," Curt replied innocently. He ran his hands under Arthur's shirt to the hard, silky skin of his back.

As Curt closed his eyes, he felt a slow, hot mouth moving over his neck in languid kisses. He brought his hands up to stroke Arthur's hair and wrap him in a tight hug.

Arthur lifted his head to meet Curt's eyes. Each regarded the other in a moment of mutual fascination and lust.

"I can still smell whiskey," Arthur smiled. Curt grinned and lunged forward, shoving his tongue roughly into Arthur's mouth and exploring it like probe.

Arthur broke away in mock disgust. "Ack! I can taste it too!" Arthur laughed.

Danger flashed across Curt's eyes— it was the shining, fervid glance of a predator with its prey in the kill zone.

"You love it," he growled, and bucked his pelvis forward to knock Arthur off balance. He swung himself into a more dominant position and claimed Arthur's mouth as his prize. Curt kissed him with boundless energy, and Arthur answered breathlessly, his strong arms gathering Curt and pinning him close.

A low hissing noise spurted from the kitchen, followed by a small, sharp crack.

Curt pulled away slightly. "What was that?" he whispered, suddenly out of breath. Arthur's hands were finding their way to his hardening underside.

"I thought I—ohhh, ah—Arthur, I—oh fuck," Curt's heart started to race in a delicious fever.

"Who cares...it's nothing," Arthur gasped. He now had Curt exactly where he wanted him, though his own erection was pushing painfully inside his jeans.

Curt rested his head on Arthur's shoulder. His eyes were closed, and he was panting softly, moving lightly with the rhythm of Arthur's strong caresses. Arthur's skin burned in anticipation of release.

The doorbell rang.

Arthur squeezed his eyes shut and pretended he didn't hear anything. He worked Curt harder and faster.

It rang again.

Curt clung tensely to Arthur and dug into the sheets, his breath now escaping in quick gasps. His back arched slightly then he shivered once and came with a smooth moan. Arthur felt hot breath on his neck.

The doorbell rang a third time, and it seemed to be getting louder.

"Motherfucker!" Curtripped himselfup and off the bed. Arthur suddenly felt bare and chilly in Curt's absence, though he was still fully clothed.

"Hey, don't you want some clo—" Arthur called after Curt, who had stomped out of the bedroom in his glorious nakedness and was off to throttle their unknown visitor.

Arthur slumped over and snickered when he heard the front door swing open with an indignant yank. He hoped whoever it was would be ready for a full frontal greeting by a very irritated Curt Wild. Strangely, the idea that it could be an unwelcome call never crossed his mind.

Arthur, his nerves still vibrating pleasantly from moments before, made his way into the kitchen, only to find the floor covered in a small lake of black coffee. A hairline crack in the pot had finally given way, shattered by the uninterrupted heat of the whole unit. Hot liquid dripped pathetically from the counter.

_Oops. Oh well, tea is much easier anyway. _He turned to look for some towels to mop up the mess.

At that moment Curt returned from the front foyer, having grabbed a pair of Arthur's sweatpants on the way. In his fist he held a bottle of wine wrapped in a dark blue ribbon. A small card was tied tightly to the neck. Curt set the bottle on the bar with a loud clunk and surveyed the coffee disaster.

Arthur noticed right away that Curt's face had paled and his hands trembled slightly.

"What the hell, man," Curt remarked, trying unsuccessfully to sound nonchalant. "Coffee pot rebellion."

"Yeah," Arthur's mouth went dry.

Curt straightened. "Well, I'm gonna get a shower, I think." He walked past Arthur, who had frozen in place. Curt paused, turned around, and draped his arms around Arthur's neck. Arthur half-heartedly returned the embrace. He could feel the tremor in Curt's movements, the poor attempts to disguise the anxiety that was now prickling in the air and under their skin.

"I owe you a poke, don't I?" Curt breathed suggestively, though underneath the words his voice was hard and focused. His anger at the delivery licked at his insides and threatened to flare up, so he concentrated on appearing casual. Casual and unconcerned...for Arthur's sake.

Arthur sighed, almost inaudibly. He rested his head on Curt's. "You don't owe me a thing," he whispered, crestfallen and quiet. He wasn't thinking about sex in the least.

Curt kissed him, slow at first but then a bit urgently, and withdrew to the master bathroom with barely a sound.

Arthur remained still for a few more moments until his muscles began to strain. He felt suddenly as if he had been up for days.

He approached the wine bottle and eyed it suspiciously, half-expecting it to burst into snakes or explode in a shower of sparks.

_Fox Bay Winery, California._ It looked expensive.

Holding his breath, Arthur untied the note.

_Sorry about the other day. Just wanted you to know I was thinking about you. Remember this place? The only thing more beautiful than that beach was you. Love, B._

Before he knew what was happening, Arthur found himself touched by the tenderness of the message. Staring at the words alone, a loose script dashed across a heavy bond card, he marveled at their simplicity and sentiment. It seemed unaccountably...sweet.

But the longer he gazed down, the more reality sunk in and the full context of the note came into painful relief. This was a message from Brian.

Brian. That name sent tiny chills zinging through Arthur, and he didn't know what to make of it. However, those sensations quickly gave way to an intense hardness inside him, like tiny claws of ice spreading over glass.

The note crumpled in his fist. He looked at the bottle in his white-knuckled grip, and a feeling very much like rage stirred in the pit of his stomach. One throw, and that's all it would take. One swing and he could hurl the bottle at the door and watch it explode into a thousand pieces.


	6. Chapter 6

**Hi all. The following was intended to be much longer, but I decided to break the chapter up so I could go ahead and get at least this much posted. I apologize if this chapter seems a bit like filler; I promise more exciting stuff is on the way. However, myambition for this story is that it really works as a character piece, and therefore I hope you don't mind my taking a deliberate (read: slow) pace in exposition. **

**I promise the next chapter won't be so long in coming. When Curt, Arthur, and Brian (and others?) finally come together, there will be fireworks (of the good or bad variety, I will not say...).**

**Anyway, standard disclaimer applies. The only thing I own here is my computer. **

**Remember, reviews are love! And though it's probably terribly tacky of me to mention it, please keep an eye out for my upcoming Obi-Wan/Anakin fic. **

**Thanks for reading!**

**Ready...and ACTION!**

* * *

"What do you mean you're not coming in? Tommy, _you have to_, this is _your_ interview!"

Shannon spun around on the street curb, the door of the limousine hitting her roughly from behind. She readjusted her purse strap in an angry huff.

"It's not an interview, really. Just a meeting. I know how these things work, Shannon, I'm not stupid."

"Then you know that they are expecting you."

Passing cars honked at the white limo hesitating in the middle of traffic.

"What they're expecting," Brian offered snidely, "is someone to meet with to confirm Tommy Stone's unwavering support for President Reynolds and his bland, oppressive, bullshit policies. And frankly I'm not up for it today. You're the mouthpiece of this organization anyway, so you tend to it."

Shannon narrowed her eyes in warning. Brian ignored her in his typical, casual way. He slunk back into the seat and slipped his sunglasses back over bleary eyes.

"Fine. Sod off, then. But be back to pick me up in an hour." She stiffened and walked away.

"Fine." Brian muttered bitterly. Even though he had gotten his way, he knew deep down that he would have to be back, or at least send someone back, to fetch this very annoying but very efficient woman who had somehow made herself indispensable to everything that Brian now was.

The driver shut Brian's door and returned to his post to await directions. Brian shifted and sulked, until a bustle of activity across the street caught his eye. He ordered the chauffeur to pull into a circle drive not far away and to keep the motor running.

Brian repositioned himself to the side of the limo facing the organized chaos nearby. It was a hospital. A small one, certainly, but a busy one nonetheless. Of course, small hospitals in the middle of a city such as New York usually indicated wealth, a secluded facility funded with heavy private endowments and teeming with specialists, dying millionaires, and drugged out celebrities. Not shameful work for a young doctor, Brian mused idly, but not exactly St. Mary's of the Lost and Invalid either. The clean exteriors and lush greenery held captive in massive ceramic beds struck Brian as truly foreign. Nowhere in his upbringing had he seen a hospital more or less set aside for the rich. He drummed his fingers on the door and absently pondered the absurd well-to-do mannerisms of everyone trekking in and out of the building. It hardly seemed real to him, these day-to-day activities that keep society moving.

Just as he was about to order the driver to move on, something else caught his eye. Strolling along the sidewalk toward the hospital was a young man in blue scrubs. By the paper bag he was clutching it appeared that he had gone for lunch and was now returning to his rounds. He stopped casually and fished for something in his pockets. A moment later he was leaning against the wall smoking a cigarette, not a care in the world.

Brian removed his sunglasses.

The boy was tall and slim. In the light of the sun his shaggy, longish hair looked the color of honey. Brian nonchalantly lowered his window.

From his vantage point he could make out dark brows and a lovely rounded nose...and lips. Full, firm pink lips sucking hurriedly on the last remaining drags. It didn't take binoculars to see that the boy was pretty, very pretty, but strong too. He had the body of a swimmer. From the easy way he tossed his head to shake the hair out of his eyes, it was clear he_ knew_ he looked good as well. Brian's mouth curved into an amused, serpentine smile. He knew the type. Hell, he was that type.

A couple of similarly dressed colleagues approached the young man and they chatted amicably. In the sudden presence of his astoundingly average friends, the boy now seemed to give off a light. The group laughed at an unheard joke and a tubby blond intern playfully jabbed Brian's streetside quarry in the ribs before they all adjourned to the emergency room entrance. With the eye candy now out of his sight, Brian shook himself out of the moment and barked a command at the driver to hurry along.

The limo drove several blocks away from Shannon and the hospital to a massive parking garage. Once inside, Brian hopped out and sauntered to another waiting vehicle, this one a nondescript midsize. Sid leaned against the hood chewing on a foul-smelling cigar. As soon as he saw Brian approach, he flicked the stub aside and straightened his posture.

"Good morning, Mr. Stone." Sid offered cheerfully.

"Sid." Brian replied shortly. "Here are your directions." He handed Sid a small piece of paper.

The limo driver and Sid exchanged looks.

"Mr. Stone?" the chauffeur leaned of his window. "When should I collect Ms.–"

Brian halted and heaved an exasperated sigh. "Whenever. In an hour or so. And tell her..." he searched for the appropriate excuse, "tell her I've gone to the venue and that I'll be back this evening."

"You don't want me to—"

"Do I have to repeat myself?" Brian snapped, his eyes flashing dangerously. "Where I go is my bloody business! I am the one who pays you, got that?"

"Yes, sir." The chauffeur removed himself from the scene without further inquiry or protest.

Brian walked past Sid, climbed into the new car and slammed the door. Sid quickly got in the driver's seat.

After a few blocks of uncomfortable silence, Sid finally spoke.

"Might I ask, Mr. Stone, why the change in transportation?"

"Is there a particular reason you'd like to know?"

"No, sir, I just—"

"Then don't ask."

But Sid wasn't a fool. He knew very well why any world famous personality would deliberately change from a luxury vehicle to a mud-brown sedan: to keep from being seen.

"Stop right here. And keep the windows up."

"Whatever you say, Mr. Stone."

Brian winced at the name. He had learned long ago to not let the bastardization of his name bother him; he had trained himself to think of it as just another stage name with no more meaning that Maxwell Demon or even Brian Slade. However, something about Sid's perfunctory, offhanded manner offended him. Sid was _too_ polite, _too_ helpful. Brian had learned long ago to be suspicious of help offered from behind Sid's brand of gleaming cheshire-grin.

Sid glared at the cigars on the seat next to him. No way he'd be able to partake in his morning habit while in such a closed space with the precious, pristine Mr. Stone. From behind his sunglasses Sid let slip an ugly smirk. Deep crow's feet pulled the leathery brown skin around his eyes. He really hated famous people, though he had been around them all his life. He shot another glance to the man in the back seat. His employer was a perfect physical contradiction to Sid in every way: slender and pale as if he were carved in porcelain, Brian gave off a faint white glow against the dingy brown and burnt sienna upholstery of the car.

_What could he possibly be looking at_, Sid mused. He regarded with interest the intense posture Brian had adopted since they parked, somewhere between a child waiting for the return of a lost puppy and a sniper anticipating his mark.

Just then, Brian stiffened, and all at once Sid could hear his breathing quicken. He watched and mentally recorded the events unfold with the casual scrutiny of the most seasoned voyeur. Whatever Brian was interested in, Sid would make his business. It was, after all, his job...or the way he made money at the very least.

The object of Brian's gaze quickly came into view. A blonde man of average height and build skipped down the steps of a well-kept brownstone. He flicked a cigarette onto the street and blew out a long plume of white smoke into the late morning air. He wore his hair in a loose ponytail and sported a form-fitting black long sleeve shirt.

_Another musician_. Sid scoffed to himself. _But not just any musician_, his business voice sauntered to the forefront of his mind, _that must be Curt Wild. The Curt Wild, who sent lovely Shannon into a tailspin and threatened the our entire New York schedule..._

Sid risked another glance at Brian, who was gripping the handle of his seat strongly enough to cause his knuckles to crack.

_Interesting_, Sid mused. _Whatever is going on between them, it isn't friendly. _

What the infinitely ignorant Sid did not pick up on, of course, is that the emotion freezing Brian's stare into the glass was not resentment, but desperation.

As soon as he appeared, Curt disappeared from view. Around the corner, into a cab, Brian couldn't see. He slumped back into his seat with all the energy of a balloon deflating.

An angry hotness quickly stung the back of his eyes. He wanted very badly to let it out, to ram his first into the seat in front of him and cry Curt right out of his system in track after track of round warm tears.

But now wasn't the time. Not here, not in front of one of Shannon's minions.

"Mr. Stone?"

Brian jerked over to shoot daggers at Sid. How dare he speak to him now, of all times. He had half a mind to order him out of the car. But when Brian looked up, he noticed another man coming from Curt's building...a tall, dark haired man dressed casually and carrying a thin briefcase.


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N:** Sorry this is so long in coming. RL is such a drag sometimes! Thanks to EVERYONE who's sticking with me. I've got another chapter coming this weekend, so stay tuned! The reviews have been deeply appreciated, so feel free so send more!

Look for these next two chapters to crank up the angst and pour on the sadness. (Then we can get to some hot sex...woohoo!)

Standard non-ownership, non-profit disclaimer applies.

* * *

"Lost in thought or just half-asleep?"

Arthur looked up from the pure green of the winter rye grass under his shoes and saw a purplish sihlouette against the sky.

"Hello." he replied softly.

"Mind if I join you?"

He politely shuffled himself and his things to one side of a cold iron bench. The flick-hiss of a lighter pricked the air and was followed by a thin line of quickly exhaled smoke. The sky was a cold ceramic white.

"I figured you would be here. It's the only green spot for blocks."

"It's quiet, I like that."

"And a church, no less. I haven't been to a church in ages. Geez, it's huge. Ever been inside?"

"A few times."

"Aw...well, you are the sensitive one. So, haven't seen you in a while. Keeping busy?"

"More or less. Curt is planning to go on the road soon."

"It's funny, I ask you about yourself and you tell me what's _Curt's_ doing."

The sound of his lover's name was fairly flung out onto the ground like a sweet's wrapper.

"Yeah, well, he keeps me busy."

"Hmph." A breeze stole furtively between the two. "Well, he always had a talent for keeping people occupied." Another jet of smoke darted through the air.

"Mandy..."

"I know, whatever. I'll keep my mouth shut."

"Did you see me sitting here quietly and decide to stir things up by picking a fight?" Arthur finally turned to stare at Mandy face-to-face.

Her hair was a mass of dark cinnamon curls which tossed playfully in the wind. She sat wrapped tightly in a rich leather coat the color of roasted eggplant, vibrantly pink gloves covering her hands from the cold. From her broad silver hoop earrings and iridescent purse, she looked like an overgrown doll, fashionable and sharp. The only tell-tale signs that she was not, in fact, a well-appointed mannequin were the deep cracks in the soles of her boots and the hard, brutal edges in her voice. Where a doll's eyes were vacant and shining, Mandy's glare was hot and inescapable.

Realizing perhaps that her mask had slipped, she twisted slightly and batted her eyelashes. It was extraordinary, Arthur mused to himself, how women could shift personality so abruptly. Mandy could forcibly seize the memory of her youth out of the atmosphere (or out of her purse or mind or wherever women kept it) and pat it over her face like a powder.

Being a man, however, and not privy to the secrets of feminine guile, Arthur failed to realize that women most often look for those former selves in the eyes of friends. Or lovers. Or the person sitting next to them on a hard bench in the middle of a chilly morning.

"If you are here to bitch, I'm leaving." Arthur stated flatly.

"I'm not here to fight with you, darling," Mandy waved off Arthur's protest with practiced flourish; she had repossessed her familiar charm as casually as one adjusts a hat.

"I just wanted to catch up with you, you know, find out the latest scoop from my favorite reporter." Her words traipsed along with the silly enthusiasm of someone fishing for gossip.

"Is that so wrong?" Assuming the pose of a schoolteacher to a sullen child, she blinked girlishly and patted Arthur's knee.

But he wasn't buying it.

"I'm afraid I don't have a good scoop for you today," he sighed. He fought the sudden urge to tell her to sod off, to leave him alone to stare at his shoes and the strange winter grass. But Arthur's cruelty always abandoned him in the most inopportune moments. He knew it was there, he could feel it snaking warmly across the lining of his stomach and into his throat—vibrations of rage and anger—but in the instant he made to release it, only phantoms escaped. Sighs and shrugs.

He hated it when his cruelty failed him.

It wouldn't have mattered much anyway, as a different feeling quelled any outburst he might direct at Mandy.

He pitied her.

"Alright then, if not scoop then how about a little favor." Her accent swung like a pendulum between a vague mid-North Atlantic clip and a lumbering Brooklyn drawl, the latter of which she had only recently adopted. Arthur wondered if Hong Kong ever came back into vogue would Mandy be able to swing Cantonese.

"Just a quick mention, you know, nothing too extravagant. Here's the address and date." She offered Arthur a dark gray letter-sized card. Thin lettering had actually been cut out of the card, making it resemble a stenciler's template of characters and symbols. He took the card and snickered.

"What the hell is this?" He flipped the card over to see the letters in reverse.

"Oh please, it's what everyone is doing now. People won't be writing with ink again until...well until at least next month."

"What's this then?" He pointed to some raised black lettering at the bottom of the invitation:

_Brought to you by Sombrero Productions, Inc._

"Well, have to give credit where credit's due, right? Although, with all the discounted advertising you've given me, your name should be on this too. Promotions is a cutthroat business, and not always profitable. Which is why— "

"You need the ad." Arthur conceded breezily. "S'okay. I think the marketing girl has a thing for me."

"Well who wouldn't?" Mandy chirped, though even her flirtations had sharp edges.

Arthur's sympathy flinched. Although Mandy had wrenched herself out of the dank bar where they first met and hoisted herself back into a position of some repute, she was still surrounded by an air of defeat. In the garish nightclubs of New York, hidden away from the cold glare of the everyday, she regained some of her former luster, but none of the warmth. Instead, she learned to carry her bitterness like credentials. Hard-won lessons in manipulation and glad-handing, ego-stroking and star-fucking paid off in a rolodex of connections and flunkies that would've made Jerry Devine flush with envy. Like Brian, Mandy could make herself famous anywhere.

"Promise me you'll try to come this time? This will be a classy event. Just your style."

"Yeah right. We'll see."

But even as he said it, Arthur knew he couldn't refuse her—even when her eyes cut through him in search of some evidence of hurts she would not forget or disappointments she could not overcome. She would rattle her bracelets and shake her hair, then peer at him sideways looking for reasons to hate him. But reasons were stubborn in revealing themselves.

"You can even bring Curt if you want."

Ah, there was a reason.

Over a year ago Arthur Stuart walked into a bar and interviewed the ex-wife of Brian Slade. The exchange was quiet but lengthy, stretching into the early hours of the morning. Arthur found Mandy sad and fascinating; Mandy found Arthur polite and soothing. It wasn't until she contacted him a few days later than she realized how haunted he was, and, even more interestingly, that he was haunted by familiar ghosts. Something drew her to him, she told herself, but hardly believed it. Confessing loneliness was never an easy thing, even after ten years. So, a few mild jokes, some courteous inquiries, and a dozen shots later, and she ushered the solicitous young journalist into a corner and whispered vaparous hints that they should "share something" and "forget the world for a moment." The next day Mandy opened the door of Arthur's building to fresh air and sunshine and congratulated herself for bedding someone who felt as good as he looked. Arthur, on the other hand, surfaced from a murky pool of alcohol and perfume to be greeted with a blinding headache and an apartment littered with regrets. When Curt and Arthur appeared together a few days later, Mandy's eyes went dark with jealousy—she certainly had no plans to pursue Arthur after one night (at least she told herself so), but neither did she enjoy seeing her discovery in the arms of Curt...again. Envy settled into hard resignation, and she contented herself with the smug satisfaction that at least she had Arthur first. Arthur simply didn't have the heart to tell her that it wasn't true. He couldn't give her Brian or Curt or happiness or her youth, but he could give her deference. Respect earns itself, and Arthur promised himself that Mandy would always have his.

"Really, it's fine. I haven't seen him in a while." She focused on a crowd of pigeons across the street as she repeated the invitation.

"Bring him, if you two can tear yourselves away from that apartment long enough."

Arthur smiled. "Yeah, well, I might be inclined to release him from his cage for an evening. Take off the chains and let him get some air."

"Curt in chains? Well that's something I would pay to see."

The words and their veiled truths hung in the air for a moment and then sunk to the moist ground. Arthur suddenly wished that Mandy had a child, someone to dote on who wasn't working an angle or covered in makeup. Someone who would stay with her.

"Well kitten, I'm off." Mandy stood and shouldered her purse. Arthur straightened in response and smiled lightly. "Come see me anytime," she added, "we'll do lunch."

She flicked away her cigarette and walked around the bench. The wind whistled through the alleys, rushing and disappearing in chilly gusts, urging movement in everything it swept across. But Mandy had frozen still.

"You know he's back in town. For a while, I heard." Her back was turned as she spoke.

"Yeah."

"I know it's none of my business— "

Though neither could see the other, they both rolled their eyes, he in recognition of the sad irony, she with old resentment.

"—but you should be careful, you know?" She turned to look down on him. "Don't let yourself get caught like I did. You're too nice a person."

Arthur, still sitting, turned around to face her. He did his best not to think about Brian Slade, but when he looked at Mandy standing alone in the wind in her curls and eggplant coat, he hated him. Hated him for the memories that danced and taunted behind Mandy's eyes, images that he had never seen, conversations and fights and betrayals he could only imagine. All that was left for him to see was collateral damage. Curt had the same look in his eyes when the bottle of wine arrived.

"Careful." Arthur repeated sullenly. His eyes fell. "Well," he shrugged slightly, "either I've got something to worry about..."

"Or you don't." Mandy offered. She smiled, and Arthur saw a flash of compassion pass over her face, just as her eyes started to shine painfully. She removed a pink glove and placed her hand on Arthur's shoulder. He accepted it right away and squeezed her cold fingers in his own.

"Don't let him hurt you," she cautioned in a strained whisper.

And as quickly her mood shifted the first time it veered back to its original position of polished safety. She straightened up and wrested herself out of the moment with a sharp inhale and toss of her hair. Smiling one last pert little smile, Mandy marched away and across the street, pigeons fluttering inelegantly in her wake.

Arthur sighed and gathered his things. His movements were unconscious, absent. _Don't let him hurt you. _He hastily glanced up to find Mandy, to call after her and ask her who she meant, but she was gone.

_Him_.

Who posed the greater threat to his happiness? To his sanity? Could she have meant Curt instead of Brian?

As Arthur walked, he felt invisible threads tighten around him, constraining his stride and clarity of thought. How had it happened? How had he managed to stumble into the lives of these people? No, he corrected himself, stumble was not the right word...they found him somehow. After years of his childish yearnings and confusion, the wreckage of Maxwell Demon's beautiful mysteries ended up on his doorstep. He didn't know whether to blame fortune or coincidence, to be thankful or resentful. It had been his life too, after all, and wasted time leaves memories that inevitably sour. He slowed to an amble, eventually stopping to lean against the bricks of an empty deli.

He missed Curt.

A shape overhead caught his eye, a tattered-looking falcon sailing the currents between the skyscrapers. The bird titled its head this way and that, scanning the dreary sidewalks as if it were looking for its own shadow.

* * *

Don't forget, my lovely little minskies, reviews draw Brian and Curt closer together. 


End file.
